


Assorted Magics

by mollus



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chocolate, Crossover, Food, M/M, Magical Realism, Mystery, fortunes, gratuitous depictions of dessert, so much chocolate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-03-28 21:35:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13912668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollus/pseuds/mollus
Summary: Steve Rogers' work trip was just supposed to be a boring two weeks- but it's when we don't expect it that Fate steps in. A late night encounter with a mysterious man, and Steve will never be the same again.A Chocolat inspired (please tell me someone besides me remembers that movie) fic featuring magic, desire, late nights, and far too many sweets. Or maybe just enough?





	1. Caramel

It was 2AM, and Steve was dead tired.

Closing the spreadsheet, he rubbed his burning eyes. He couldn’t believe this was the 2nd night of the trip and he was here this late.

Surely this was the work of more than one person, his manager had to know that.

But then, that would mean his manager would have to listen to him. Which would necessitate Steve speaking up for himself for once.

Like that was going to happen, Steve thought ruefully.

Steve got up out of his desk chair, feeling his spine pop as it straightened for the first time in hours. Finally, time to go back to the hotel. Everyone else had left hours ago.

After a long elevator ride up from the basement of the building, Steve stepped into the warm dampness of the New Orleans evening. He had to admit, despite not having seen much of the city so far due to the workload that he’d been given, he liked the place. It was pretty nice to be in mid-70s heat in March.

Despite the late hour, he decided against finding a cab. It felt too good to stretch his legs. Besides, the hotel should only be a few blocks away. He plugged the address of the hotel into his phone, took another deep breath of the night air, and set off.

___________________________________________________

Steve grimaced as he stared up at the street sign, and then back down at his phone.

Either the hotel was farther away than it had appeared to be that morning, or he was lost. It had been over an hour since he left work.

“Dauphine Street,” He muttered. “There might have been a Dauphine Street…” At the very least, maybe if he kept walking, he’d come across another street he could recognize, or across someone who would know where his hotel was.

He wandered along the street, looking for signs of light or movement in any of the shops. He’d realized a little while ago that he might be in New Orleans, but he’d moved away from the busiest tourist part of the downtown, and most of the shops around these streets were long closed.

A woman walked down the street across from him, but before Steve could stop her to ask for help, she took one look at him and quickly moved to the other side of the road.

Steve sighed internally. In some ways, when he’d finally gotten over his host of childhood illnesses in his teens it had been both a blessing and a curse. The extra height and muscle had certainly helped Steve avoid being picked on at long last, but for all he was still a relatively reserved and shy person, he still startled some people. He certainly didn’t blame the woman for crossing the street, given the world they lived in, but it didn’t exactly make him feel good.

And now, of course, he had a rock in his shoe. Steve put his phone in his pocket and leaned against a nearby lamppost. He yanked his shoe off and started dumping the assortment of pebbles that had somehow collected in the bottom of his shoe onto the street.

This was the stupidest night, Steve grumbled to himself. He knew he was tired and hungry, and that was most of the reason he felt so cranky, but he couldn’t help it. Jamming the shoe back on his foot, he yanked his phone out of his pocket again- and promptly fumbled it. He watched it skitter away into the darkness of a nearby alley, of course sliding right underneath an old wrought iron gate.

Steve stared beseechingly at the sky, and then walked over to the gate. His phone, of course, was just out of reach behind it, and the bars were too narrow for him to reach through.

If he was lost now, how on earth was he supposed to find the hotel without his phone?

As if in answer, a gust of wind suddenly psuhed against him. Steve stumbled forwarded and the gate, amazingly, creaked open slightly.

Steve gaped for a second, looking upwards in incredulity. Then he remembered exactly what time it was, and hurried to open the gate farther. Oddly, given how old the gate looked, it didn’t shriek too loudly on its hinges.

With a sigh of relief, Steve stepped beyond the gate and went over to his phone. He stooped to pick it up.

As he unbent, he suddenly realized- there was a light coming from farther down the alley.

Maybe there was something open around here after all.

Wiping his phone on his pants, Steve slowly walked down the alley towards what appeared to be a lamp next to a picture window.

As he came level with the window, Steve ground to a halt.

The lamp hung just above a door, but that wasn’t what attracted Steve’s attention.

That would be the picture window itself. Or actually, what filled said window.

Chocolates.

A mountain of them. Someone had carefully stacked dozens of small, perfectly sculpted globes of different colours and textures into an elegant pyramid in the centre of the window box. They had surrounded this with almost every receptacle you could think of, and a few you wouldn’t have considered. Teacups and saucers, goblets, a purple mask with gold ribbons, mason jars, tiny mirrored boxes, equally tiny tasseled blue silk pillows, a metal bucket, a bonsai tree whose branches formed a bowl, clay shot glasses, boards and plates and hands and fabrics and clearly anything else the owner could get their hands on. Every colour of the rainbow and all perfect spheres and of equal size, just the right size to pop whole into your mouth.

Steve stared unblinkingly for a few minutes, taking in the colours and shapes, backlit by a golden light that seemed to be coming from somewhere inside the shop.

He felt an urge, just for a minute, which he hadn’t felt in years- to immortalize this image with pen and paper. His fingers curled as if looking for the shape of a pen, and he reached one hand up towards the glass-

And stopped, shaking himself. It was 3AM; he was lost. Now was not the time to be thinking of nonsense.

He looked over towards the door, and was delighted to see a handwritten “OPEN” sign hanging prominently on the door. He hurried over, glancing upwards to look at the name of the store before he went in. Large red ( _carmine_ , his traitor brain supplied) letters proclaimed the shop to be _La Chocolaterie Le Fin_.

Steve carefully pushed the door open. As he stepped inside, he inhaled the most delicious scent- of rich chocolate, but also of something else. Something dark, and almost spicy.

It took his eyes a few moments to adjust to the warm light after the dark street. And then Steve was staring again.

It was a very small room, feeling almost smaller with dark walls similar in colour to the sign outside. Said walls were covered in large paintings and other objects which included, among other things, a large feathered mask and several wind chimes. Heavy curtains were hung across the ceiling, which was interspersed with large hanging lamps, producing the golden glow that Steve had seen. The ceiling was so low he thought he could almost jump and touch it. There was enough space for two small wrought iron tables with matching chairs, one of which a black cat slept on, and most of the rest of the space was taken up by a large counter of some dark wood. Behind the counter, the entire back wall was shelves filled with a bit of everything: books, candles, boxes, statues, what looked like several animal skeletons in glass cases. The counter itself was mostly taken up by more chocolate- stacked in pyramids, in boxes, in jars, and even what looked like a small chocolate castle.

The only empty area was taken up by an old fashioned metal till, and the propped-up book of the man sitting behind the counter.

The man currently smiling at Steve, who was still standing in the doorway.

“Um, hello.” Steve stammered. “I know it’s late but-”

“-You’ve lost your way?” The man interrupted quietly.

“Y-yeah, I don’t suppose you know where the Homewood is-”

“ _Oui_ , it’s about two blocks over. Up Bienville.”

“…Oh! Yes, thanks, that’s really-”

“Is that all you came in here for, though?”

Now Steve ground to a halt, blinking at the man. The man quietly gazed back, with eyes that almost seemed to glitter in the low light.

“I, I mean…” Steve started. The warm, delicious air of the shop, combined with the gentle light, seemed to be fuzzing his brain. He placed his hand on a nearby chair, trying to steady himself.

The man almost seemed to smile wider. He gestured Steve closer.

Feeling like he’d lost control of his feet, Steve walked up to the counter.

Upon closer inspection, Steve realized the man was about his age. He had long dark hair caught up in a messy bun, and startlingly blue eyes framed by long lashes. He wore a button down white shirt rolled up at the forearms, and Steve could see a scrolling tattoo of some kind on his left arm. There was a leather cuff on his other arm, and several leather thongs hanging pendants around his neck.

That wasn’t helping Steve’s balance either.

The man stood, closing the book and turning to place it on a shelf behind the counter. Steve noticed what looked like a raven feather caught up in the man’s bun.

With his back still turned, the man asked:

“Your fortune, a secret, or your heart’s desire?”

Steve blinked in surprise, sure he been mistaken. But the man turned around, and looked at Steve expectantly, placing his hands on the counter in front of him.

Caught off guard, Steve asked more than answered, “M-my fortune?”

The man hummed in consideration, looking upwards, and then nodded. He stooped to reach below the counter (letting his shirt float open slightly at the neck, Steve twitched and focused on the counter) and retrieved a plate, setting it down.

Steve blinked down at it in confusion. It was covered in swirls of different chips of broken pottery of all colours and shapes. He looked back up at the man to find him watching him.

The man raised his eyebrows at him enigmatically, and looked back down at the plate. Steve looked down as well.

The man placed one hand on the rim of the plate, and flicked his wrist.

The plate spun on the countertop. The chips of pottery flickered and swam.

“What do you see?” The man asked.

Feeling even dizzier, Steve answered honestly. “Colours. Red… and black.  Some blue.”

He frowned. It even almost looked like… like…

“A raven…?” He murmured. The shape seemed to drag at his eyes.

The man stopped the spinning plate. Steve glanced up and then froze, caught by the blue eyes that were considering him carefully.

“I think…” The man said thoughtfully, “That change is coming for you, in a few ways. Like the wind – not as you expect.”

He looked down at the plate, contemplating it for a moment. Steve waited, the silence in the shop catching and holding him.

The man looked up at Steve, holding his gaze. He seemed to be trying to stare _into_ Steve, instead of simply at him.

“If you agree to these changes, all will go smoothly. If you do not, you will regret it. Forever.” He finished.

Steve swallowed. “I don’t understand,” he said.

The man smiled again, this time sympathetically.

“You won’t, at first, which is usually how it works.”

Steve nodded, thinking. He found his eyes wandering over the stacks of chocolates lining the counter.

“They’re… beautiful.” He said impulsively, gesturing.

The man blinked, seeming almost surprised. He cocked his head, considering Steve.

“Can I make a recommendation?” He asked, holding a hand towards the chocolates.

Steve blinked. “Yes?”

The man looked across his counter, seeming to think hard about the choices. He finally selected one from a pile nestled in a teacup patterned with red stars, and turned back to Steve. Steve absently noted that it was a similar colour as the man’s hair.

Steve held a hand out, but the man smiled again, and held it up to face level.

Later, Steve told himself it was the smell of the shop, the lateness of the hour, the colour of the man’s eyes, that he didn’t argue. He just stepped closer to the counter, and opened his mouth.

The man leaned forward and placed the chocolate on Steve’s tongue.

Steve closed his mouth, and felt it melt almost instantly. Dark chocolate spread across his tongue, followed quickly by rich caramel and a flicker of salt.

Steve had to resist the urge to moan.

Caught up in the moment, he locked eyes with the man.

Blue met blue.

Steve felt a blush rising on his cheeks, and saw the man’s eyes follow it up to his ears and down his shirt collar, before meeting his eyes again and holding them.

Steve breathed, once, twice.

He was so close, the shop was so quiet, he could hear the man breathing as well, steady and quiet.

He could almost hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

From somewhere behind him, the cat meowed suddenly. 

Steve startled, taking a step back.

The man just considered him.

“How…” Steve starts to ask, but realized his voice is coming out as a whisper, and tried again.

“How much? Do I owe you?”

The man blinked slowly at him. Then:

“Your name.”

Steve blinked, startled. “It’s Steve.”

The man hummed, and then turned to pick up the plate, considering it. He looked at Steve again.

“You should rest. _Bonnuit_ , Steve Rogers.”

Steve swallowed, and nodded. “Goodnight.”

It’s not until another half hour later, when he’s managed to find his way home and collapse into his very soft bed, that he realizes he never told the man his last name.


	2. Mint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last! I'm so sorry folks, I started a new job that actually took up my time and brain power, so I've pretty much only had time to write in the 30 minutes it takes me to get to work and home. On my phone. Which is terrible.  
> Anyways, on to chapter 2! Should be more to follow soon, this sucker is almost done.

Another week, and Steve felt like he was right back where he started.

After he’d woken the next morning after that very late night with the lingering taste of chocolate on his tongue, he’d immediately tried to find the shop on Google. He was in one of the most popular tourist destinations in the world, he reasoned, and he hadn’t been far from the downtown.

He’d tried every search he could think of – “chocolate shop Dauphine Street”, “shops Dauphine Street”, “chocolate shops New Orleans”, “mystery shop”, “midnight chocolate”, to no avail. Google maps showed the open gate, but with only an empty stretch of brick wall behind it.

He’d disappointedly chalked it up to some sort of work-induced stress dream, and tried to put it out of his head.

But as the week went on, and Steve found himself staying late time and time again, he found his thoughts straying. He’d find his way outside to the humid New Orleans air, and be possessed with the urge to wander over to Dauphine Street. He’d think of dark, curling hair, and bewitching blue eyes, and that peculiar spicy-sweet scent, and he’d think, _maybe I should just go see_. _Just in case_.

To be sure.

But then he would feel his bag weighing on his arm, and the ache in his back from the terrible broken chair they’d given him. And more than that, he’d picture walking up Dauphine Street and seeing that blank brick wall, and knowing for _sure_ it was all just imagination.

So he’d gone back to the hotel every time, and tried to forget.

But dream or not, he hadn’t been able to forget the man’s words.

_Change is coming for you, in a few ways. Like this wind – not as you expect._

_If you agree to these changes, all will go smoothly. If you do not, you will regret it._

_Forever._

He couldn’t get those words out of his head. They whispered to him before he collapsed into bed, and right as he woke up in the mornings. He found his mind straying to them as he worked through hours of data entry. Once, he realized he’d been staring off into space for 15 minutes, and when he looked at his spreadsheet, he’d typed them into one of the columns.

For a dream, it sure had some staying power. And it was starting to drive him crazy.

It didn’t help matters that the work trip was only getting worse. Today was the fifth day in a row that Steve had worked through lunch, and he’d already stayed until after dark three nights. He didn’t think he would mind so much if he hadn’t been the only one. Each time, his supervisor Brock had wandered over, 15 minutes before the end of the day, and dropped a huge pile of documents on his desk, saying _he knew Steve wouldn’t mind staying just an extra half hour to finish these up, would you Steve? That’s what colleagues are for, and you know I’d do the same, don’t you buddy?_

So he’d worked and worked, hungry and exhausted, and on top of everything, those words kept drifting through his brain. Over and over again, like a mantra.

_Change is coming for you… Not as you expect… Regret it… Forever… Change is coming…_

And the wind rattled against the door.

So six days after that night, Steve chalked it up to total overload that when Brock came over and dropped six file folders on his desk and opened his mouth, Steve was amazed to hear his own voice cutting him off.

“No.”

Brock blinked at him, and then rolled his eyes.

“C’mon, Steve. It’s just a few little details, there’s this girl at the bar on St. Martin…”

Steve’s eyes were gritty, he was sweating through his collared shirt, and it bubbled right out of him again.

“No, Brock. I can’t.”

He couldn't control it. But he knew, _he knew_ , he couldn't do it. Not today. Possibly not ever again.

He looked Brock, who was turning slightly red, dead in the eye.

“I won’t.”

Brock sputtered for a minute, and then rounded on him.

“You’re a clerk, _Rogers_ , and you’re under my lead. If I say you’ll do this, you’ll do it!”

Steve felt very far away, but he could hear himself speak again.

“I might be, but that doesn’t mean I do your work, and stay here every night until I drop. I’m heading out for the night.” He realized he’d gotten up from the desk. Absently, he noticed that he had several inches on Brock. Had he always been this short?

Brock seemed too thrown to speak. Steve grabbed his bag, and started towards the door.

Pointing his finger in his face, Brock suddenly wheeled on him.

“You leave now, Rogers, and you’re done. I’ll make sure of it.”

Steve stopped for a moment in the doorway.

_... Regret it forever_ whispered through his mind.

He was gentle when he closed the door behind him.

_____________________________________________

He made it almost all the way back to his hotel room before the enormity of what he’d just done set in. He collapsed on a nearby bench and stared blankly at his hands.

God. What had he done?

He had no job. He would have no place to stay after tonight, he was sure. Most importantly, _he had no way home_.

Granted, his shoebox apartment in Brooklyn wasn’t really much of a home, but _still_.

He could almost feel panic starting to come on.

Only one thing for it, then.

Time to get blindingly drunk.

Steve got up from his seat on the bench, and walked over to a nearby cab. He popped open the back door and got in.

“Where to?” The driver asked, facing ahead. He sounded bored.

Steve sat thoughtfully for a minute. Then he asked, “Where’s _your_ favourite place to get a drink?”

The guy swiveled in his seat, staring at Steve. He was an older man, with a bushy mustache and a flat cap.

His face split into a huge grin, and he started the car.

___________________________________________

Six hours later, and Steve was not tipsy. He was not drunk.

He was what people would more commonly refer to as _plastered._

He’d still been a little anxious when the cab driver had stopped in front of the first place, Sylvain. Actually specifically, the cab driver had stopped in down the street, parked, and went around to open Steve’s door. Then he’d motioned to Steve to follow him. Confused, Steve had done so. The cab driver, who quickly introduced himself as Dernier, “but you can call me Jacques, _mon ami_ ”, had waved to a server on the way in and quickly made his way over to a corner booth. There, without asking Steve, he’d ordered them both pork shoulder with grits. Steve had almost questioned it, but then he got a whiff as the waiter brought it over. Suddenly starving, he’d inhaled the entire delicious plateful in under ten minutes. Jacques had grinned at him in pleasure, watching him eat.

“Can’t start no night in New Orleans on an empty belly, my friend!” He’d said happily. Then he’d pulled a notebook from his jacket, and started scribbling down a list.

“Now,” He’d said, waving Steve to sit closer, “This is where you’re going to want to start…”

The list was four notebook pages long, and had recommendations next to each entry. Jacques had slapped him on the back, told him to enjoy himself, and made him promise to try a po’boy on the way home from his favourite food truck.

The first place was the size of a generous trailer, and was lit up with Christmas lights. He didn’t even ask for a drink – he was just handed one. Whatever it was, it had enough of a liquorice flavoured liquor that he could feel the anxiety starting to drain away.

It was now two and a half notebook pages later, he had a po’boy in one hand, and he was pretty sure a cat had been following him for four blocks. He stopped to check.

Well, he tried to stop. Mostly he tripped over his own feet, and suddenly found himself sitting sideways on the curb.

While he was trying to orient himself, a furry head poked into view around his left knee. Steve managed to swing his head more or less in that direction.

“ _Heeey_ buddy,” he said, only sort of slurring. He held out the sandwich. “Wanna bite?”

The cat stared at him for a minute, and then carefully leaned forward, putting one paw on Steve’s knee. It nibbled a piece of crawfish out of the sandwich. Steve grinned at it happily. He swung his head upward, searching for some stars. One managed to blink at him from under the bright city lights.

“What am I going to do now?” Steve mumbled quietly to himself.

The cat meowed at him, and set to cleaning its paws.

__________________________________________________

Steve was not feeling quite so philosophical the next morning.

He pried his eyes open and groaned in response to the brilliant sunshine seeping in through the windows that he’d forgotten to cover the night before. His head ached like he had never experienced before, his mouth felt drier than a desert, and there was something heavy on his chest. At least he’d made it home, even if he couldn’t exactly remember _how_.

Carefully, he rolled his head down towards his chest. There appeared to be a furry rug attached to his midriff.

“Uh,” Steve said intelligibly. “Hello?”

The rug unrolled itself and turned out to be the cat. It made a rumbling noise at Steve, then snuggled its head into Steve’s neck and settled in again.

Steve carefully lifted a hand and stroked its back. It started purring like an engine.

Huh.

He’d never had a cat before.

___________________________________________________________

By 2PM, Steve had mostly managed to pull himself back into something human shaped, with the help of several large glasses of water and the box of granola bars he’d brought on the trip. It only occurred to him while he was in the process of demolishing the last one that no one had come to kick him out yet.

He may as well figure out if he was on the hook for the last night.

Steve wandered down to the front lobby and waylaid the front desk clerk, who explained that actually the room had been paid through the next two weeks, which was when Steve was supposed to be finished the contract here.

_If you agree to these changes, all will go smoothly…_

Steve laughed, a little hysterically, and quickly left the lobby when the clerk looked at him strangely.

Steve grabbed a breakfast sandwich (filled with some incredible green onion sausage) and a few beignets from a nearby café, and headed back to his room to do some thinking.

Sprawling comfortably on the chair on his balcony, Steve fed the cat some leftover sausage and considered his options, notepad and pen in hand.

So he was fired. Officially without a job. Without a plane ticket home. Technically homeless. In a city where he knew no one.

(He resolutely did not think of a pair of soulful blue eyes in a darkly lit shop.)

Suddenly he realized - He was _free_. For the first time in years. No brash supervisor shoving paperwork at him. No disappointed mother telling him he needed to give up on his dreams, and start thinking _practically_. No lonely future looming over him, stretching out into infinity.

Steve took a deep breath, feeling like it was the first real breath he’d taken in years. He looked down at the notepad and pen, and then at the cat now sleeping on the table next to him.

Slowly, he began to sketch. Lines blurred and lengthened, and he drifted for a little while, lost in the meditative feeling of pen on paper.

He only looked up again when the sun changed position enough to move completely off the paper.

He blinked. The cat stared up from the page at him, surrounded by the balcony. Around the edge of the drawing was several other sketches. The sandwich from the night before. A streetlamp. The face of the clerk downstairs.

A chocolate sitting in a teacup.

Steve looked out over the city, which was drifting into late afternoon.

He grabbed the notebook and a few pens, and headed out.

______________________________________________________

In the end, he ended up staying out until dawn, smoothly transitioning from warm sunshine to bright street and bar lights.

He wandered from place to place, sketching interesting faces, famous bars, and unique landmarks. He listened to street jazz, getting tugged into a clumsy two-step with a laughing woman while a brass group alternatively played and cheered him on. He made his way into smoky clubs, trying interesting drinks (but not too many, the night before weighing painfully in his memory) and trying to capture the colourful energy of the people. He saw gorgeous churches, soaring cathedrals that climbed into the air. He saw beautiful old homes, emanating a rich history of what he learned was French and Creole architecture. He saw amazing gardens, filled with old oaks and willows and heavy with the scent of innumerable flowers. He ate anything that looked interesting: more po’boys and beignets, but also _étouffée_ , oysters, pistolette, pralines, huckabucks, and anything spicy that had shrimp or pork in it. He watched people talking and singing, dancing and celebrating and crying and _living_.

He walked until his feet ached, his eyes were heavy, and his notebook was full.

At dawn, he found himself sitting on a bench overlooking the river, drinking chicory coffee and eating _calas_ and sausages.

The sun rose pink and gold over the river, burning silver fog off the water. The wind off the river touseled his hair. His hands were stained with ink and his fingers were throbbing, but he was happier than he could remember being in a long time.

______________________________________________

A few days later, he was contentedly working on a sketch of a corner of Bourbon Street – there was a café that didn’t mind if he stayed for hours, as long as he got a coffee or something every few hours. Addicted as he already was to the chicory coffee, he took full advantage of the position to observe the world go by.

He was deep into his latest sketch, that of a mother and her young child watching a saxophone player across the street, when a voice over his shoulder said, “That’s pretty good, Rogers.”

Startled, Steve whipped around in his seat to find himself face to face with Natasha Romanova, one of the partners in his former company.

He first tried to say “hello”, and then “what are you doing here” and _then_ “how do you even know my name”, but all that ended up coming out was a stammering “w-what?”, while he dropped his notebook.

Without missing a beat, Natasha somehow coolly managed to swipe it directly out of midair before knocked over his coffee cup. She took a seat at the table across from him and started paging through it, ignoring Steve’s confused stammering and hand waving.

“Miss Romanova, that’s not – that’s nothing, I mean, I don’t really – it’s actually –”

She held up one finger imperiously. Steve shut his jaw with an audible _click_.

She continued leafing through the pages, spending more time on certain drawings, particularly one Steve had done of one of the cathedrals. As the silence continued, Steve squirmed more and more, but he was too nervous to break it.

Finally, she reached the last page, and looked back up at him. She gave him an appraising look.

“You have some real talent here, Rogers.” She said, staring him down.

Steve flushed what he was sure was a brilliant pink.

“It – it’s not…” He began, wincing when it came out as a croak and she raised her eyebrow. “I went to school for it. But it’s nothing, really.”

Natasha hummed, looking back down at the page, and then looked back at Steve.

“Well,” She said, “It may be nothing, but if it was up to me, I’d be offering you a place in my department, doing some advertisement work. But Brock didn’t exactly handle you leaving well, and you did leave in a bit of a noticeable fashion…”

Steve grimaced, recalling. She smiled at him, and continued.

“So I can’t offer you anything – at least for now, anyways. But if you’re interested, there’s actually a guy I know in town.” She reached into her purse, and pulled her wallet out, from which she retrieved a card. She placed it on the table in front of Steve.

“A… friend of mine, let’s say.” She said, tapping a finger on the card. “Does graphic design here in New Orleans. Just took over his father’s company two years ago, but he’s been doing pretty well for himself. I know he’s been looking for a designer with a different style for his team, and I think you’d fit the bill perfectly.” She looked at him expectantly.

Steve gaped at her. Surely she had to be joking.

“Miss – miss Romanova –”

“Natasha, please.”

Steve’s brain did a flipflop, but he tried again. “Na-Natasha. I really appreciate the thought, but I mean – this is just something I used to do. I’m not that good, I’ve never done anything professionally. I mean, my last showcase was in college, ten _years_ ago.” He dropped his gaze down to the table. “I really appreciate the thought, I do, but…”

The silence stretched between them for a moment, and then Natasha sighed. She put her wallet back in her purse, and then got up.

“Alright, Steve. Whatever you think is best.”

Then she reached down and picked up the card. She pulled a pen from her bag and scribbled something on it. The she slid the card over to rest under the edge of his coffee cup.

Steve looked up at her, confused.

She smiled down at him, gently this time. “Just in case you change your mind. And I’m leaving my number there too – keep in touch, Steve Rogers. I get the feeling things are going to change for you.”

She didn’t seem to see Steve twitch as she turned and walked away.

Steve stared down at his drawing. In his mind, the words whispered away.

_Change is coming for you… Not as you expect…_

He almost fell out of his seat when a gust of wind suddenly blew down the street, making the paper flutter under the cup. Down the street, the saxophone player started up again.  

Maybe it was time to test a dream.

________________________________________________

It was like he’d never left.

He’d deliberately waited until nightfall again, some weird internal sense telling him these things needed to wait until dark. Then he’d packed up his bag, and made his way slowly over to Dauphine Street, telling himself the entire way that he had better not be disappointed when all he found was a locked gate and an empty brick wall.

And yet somehow he wasn’t surprised to find the gate halfway open, and to see the warm light of the lamp glowing down the alleyway. This time, he noted that the iron of the gate was actually in the shape of delicate vining roses.

That didn't stop him from spending a few moments outside the door, trying to convince himself to go in, however.

In the end, it’s the picture window that draws him in again. It’s just as resplendent as last time, but in a different way – somehow they had recreated iconic landmarks of the city in delicate chocolate, all arranged on red silk. Three story houses made of dark chocolate with the signature balconies made of spun sugar and lighter chocolate lined white chocolate streets. Chocolate bark was sculpted into trees, and hair-thin lines of chocolate made lights and tables. A chocolate cathedral stood behind the main street scene, and the street was filled with tiny chocolate people. There was an entire chocolate jazz band playing in one section. The entire thing somehow conveyed the vibrancy and energy of New Orleans, sculpted delicately in miniature.

Steve’s fingers ached to draw it.

And so he found himself pushing open the door.

This time, he wasn’t so distracted by the inside of the shop. No, this time his eyes went immediately to the cash register. He was disappointed to find it empty.

He felt himself droop slightly in disappointment, when suddenly the heavy velvet curtain to the back room shifted, and the same man as before came hurrying out.

“A moment _s’vous plaisez_ , sorry –” He said in a rush, and then he seemed to notice who was at the door. He stopped, one hand holding the curtain back, and his face broke out into a smile.

“Steve Rogers. I was not sure if I would see you again.” He said, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.

Steve tracked the movement absently, watching the way the low light shone in his hair. Then he blushed, realizing what he was doing.

“I thought I imagined it all.” Steve blurted out, and then winced.

The man didn't seem to notice. His smile turning slightly more secretive, somehow.

“I like to keep things quiet.” The man replied. He waved a hand, gesturing Steve closer.

Steve managed to maintain his composure this time, trying to convey some sense of dignity as he walked up to the counter. The man leaned forward forward, palms flat against the glass top. The pendants on his necklaces swung out slightly from the collar of his shirt. He looked Steve up and down.

“You seem like you have had a better few days.” The man said.

Steve thought about all that had happened in the last 48 hours, from quitting his job, to the drawing spree, to the cat. He smiled.

“Yes, it's been much better.” He glanced at the man, and then, feeling bold, “I got some good advice that just seemed to stick with me.”

The man chuckled, ducking his head for a moment.

“That is good to hear.” He replied. He caught Steve's eye again. Steve tried to hold his gaze, but found himself blushing and looking away again.

Something about the man's gaze made it almost… too much. Like if he looked for too long, he wouldn't be able to tear his eyes away again.

The man leaned back, still looking at Steve.

“So what will it be this time, Steve Rogers?” He murmured, breaking the quiet of the shop.

Steve knew immediately what he meant. Nervously, he looked up at the man.

“A secret.” His voice came out as a whisper.

The man smiled at him, and stepped closer to the counter. He crossed his arms, and then looked at Steve again, more slowly this time.

It was like he could feel his gaze drifting over him. A thousand goosebumps prickled his skin.

He swallowed dryly, and the man tracked the movement. Finally, he met Steve's eyes.

He raised his hand and crooked a finger at Steve.

Following the unspoken request, Steve walked a step closer.

The man leaned in, and his breath ghosted over the shell of Steve’s ear.

“Your heart,” the man whispered, “Knows you are already good enough.”

Steve shivered, and found himself turning to meet the man's gaze. They couldn't be more than five inches apart.

Without moving, the man reached out and plucked a chocolate from a nearby box. He took Steve's hand from where it was now clutching the counter, and placed the chocolate in his palm.

Steve looked down at the chocolate. It was delicately fluted in a swirl, with a slight peak.

“What… Does this one cost?” Steve asked.

He heard the man hum slightly.

“What do you think it would cost?”

Steve considered the chocolate. He'd seen this shape before, although never in a clearly handmade shape.

A chocolate kiss.

He took a deep breath, and placed it carefully in his mouth. Then he looked up.

The man stared back at him.

Steve dropped his eyes to his lips, and then slowly leaned in.

He had a moment to feel the softness of the man's lips against his own when the chocolate melted in the heat of his mouth. A sudden burst of mint bloomed across his tongue.

Steve gasped slightly in surprise and the man's tongue slid smoothly along his own. Sighing into the wet heat of his mouth, Steve blindly sunk his hands in the man's soft hair. The man grabbed the collar of Steve's shirt, pulling him closer and sucking on his lower lip.

Another moment, or possibly thousands, and they broke apart. Steve felt like he'd run a marathon, panting heavily. He realized he'd been pulled most of the way across the counter.

The man reached up, and gently caressed Steve's cheek. On instinct, Steve reached up and caught his fingers. The man breathed out sharply, and a tendril of hair fell across his face. This close, and Steve could see the exact shades of his eyes, a hazy mix of grey and blue.

He was pretty sure he could feel all the nerves in his body singing.

Then gently, the man withdrew his fingers and let go of Steve's collar. Steve lowered his hands and stepped back from the counter. Suddenly he felt very unsure.

The man reached under the counter and removed a small box tied with a red ribbon. Just as before, he smoothly reached for Steve's hand, and pressed the box into it.

At Steve's questioning look, he lifted his eyebrows and smirked.

“Some secrets need reminders. The North wind has plans for you.”

Steve nodded. He turned towards the door, but turned back again just as he pushed it open.

“What… What's your name?” He asked shyly.

The man's smirk grew into a truly pleased grin.

“Bucky Barnes. _Bonnuit_ , Steve Rogers. Don't forget.”

Steve glanced down at the man's kiss swollen lips, and gulped, before turning to walk back out into the night.

He didn't think he'd need that much of a reminder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #mintisjustcoldspicy


	3. Chapter 3

Two days later Steve was sitting under the shade of a tree in Washington Square Park, doing sketches of all the people wandering by.

Or at least, trying to.

After the third sketch of a nearby juggler ended in a poorly timed ink blob, Steve let out a frustrated sigh and put the sketchbook down. Leaning back against the tree, he stared up at the sweeping branches over his head, letting the ambient noise of the park drift around him.

Two days had passed since that conversation, and Steve had had a constant chorus whispering insistently in head.

_Change is coming… You already know… Regret it forever… Good enough…_ _like the wind..._ Over and over, echoing throughout his brain.

His sketches had gone from something half-way good to strange, indistinct smudges of ink. Every time he tried to focus on his work, the whispers would float through his mind, distracting him. He hadn’t been able to produce anything substantial in days.

Because what if Bucky was right?

What if this was the right time? The right place?  What if he needed to ignore the voice of his mother telling him to give up on his dreams, and listen instead to that other voice that was growing ever more insistent?

_Your heart knows you’re already good enough_.

Confused as he was, Steve was barely thinking about the other part of the night. At least, that was what he was telling himself.

Although, honestly? That night threw itself across his mind in technicolor every time he stopped to think. His thoughts lingered over the bow of Bucky’s lips, the softs curls of hair that hung over his cheek, the way his accent had drawled languorously around Steve’s name.

He hadn’t gone back to the shop. He told himself it was because he was probably headed back to New York soon. Better to just leave things be; leave it a beautiful memory.

Steve scrubbed his hands over his face, wondering what on earth the right choice was. Feeling defeated, he packed up for the day and headed back to the hotel.

When he got back to his room, he found the cat on the floor, batting something around. Steve smiled slightly at the animal. At the very least, keeping this little guy around was something he could be sure of. The cat, who he’d christened Renoir, liked to snuggle into Steve’s arms when he went to sleep. His favourite food tended to be whatever Steve was eating, and his favourite toys were Steve’s erasers. Steve hadn’t had such good company in years.

Renoir immediately stopped playing with the thing when he noticed Steve, and came over, yowling for attention. Steve chuckled and picked him up, draping him over one shoulder. The cat purred contentedly in his ear as Steve set down his notebook.

“What were you playing with, buddy?” he asked. He stooped over to look at the object, and stopped dead.

A small box with a red ribbon lay on the floor, looking only slightly worse for wear.

Reaching down, he scooped it up. Setting the cat down on the bed, he sat down next to him. Slowly, he undid the ribbon and lifted the lid.

Chocolate seashells, tiny and perfectly sculpted, lay on a bed of paper.

Carefully, he picked one out and placed it on his tongue.

A delicate flavour of almonds came right through the rich taste of the chocolate. Steve let his eyes drift close, savouring the sensation of the chocolate melting on his tongue.

_Some secrets need a reminder…_

He could almost feel the weight of Bucky’s grey-blue eyes upon him.

Behind him, the wind rattled against the windowpane.

The last traces chocolate faded away Steve opened his eyes.

A reminder, huh?

He dug around in the bedside table until he found the scrap of paper Natasha had given him days ago, and then pulled out his phone.  

________________________________

Steve felt a bead of sweat trickle down his spine, and wished he could blame it solely on the sun directly above him.

He stared at the logo on the door that matched the one on the well-worn business card in his pocket.

_Iron and Gold Graphic Design._

All he had to do was open the door.

Steve was pretty sure his arms were numb. He barely registered the weight of the portfolio shoved under his arm.

Maybe he should just come back another day. It was a Thursday, Tony Stark could be busy. He might not even remember Natasha. He might not even be in.

Even though, you know, Steve had called ahead. And made an appointment with his assistant.

Dammit.

Nothing for it, then. He pushed the door open and went inside.

Somehow, his quaking feet carried him across the small reception area. The red -haired woman behind the desk looked at him expectantly.

“Hi, I'm… Steve Rogers?” he stammered. “I’m here to see Mr. Stark?”

She smiled politely and opened her mouth to reply. It was cut off when the door to Steve’s right crashed open.

A round, older white man stormed into the reception area.

“I've put fifteen years into this business Tony, and you have the _gall_ to say I need to improve?!” the man yelled over his shoulder. His face was beet red. Steve took an unconscious step back, thudding into the reception desk.

“We didn't need any of these fancy _programs_ or _computers_ when I started, and we sure as _shit_ don't need them now!” He screamed.

Another man stepped out from the office. He was wearing a nice suit, with a underneath it. His hair and goatee were perfectly styled. He crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame. Steve couldn't help but notice the mischief in the quirk of his mouth.

“Well, Richard,” the new man said calmly, “I'm pretty sure we’ve moved beyond feather quills and the plague too, so that's not really the only thing that's changed.”

The first man swelled like a balloon. Steve tried to blend into the desk, as much as a six-foot tall man could. He made eye contact with the receptionist, a look that was a silent scream for help.

She was filming with her iPhone.

“Your _father-”_ the man began scathingly, but the other man cut him off.

“My father did a _lot_ of things, including almost every female client he could, _and_ almost going bankrupt thirteen different ways. So, safe to say I’m taking the company in a different direction. A direction which, as I have warned you several times, do not include anyone not willing to get with the times.”

The first man to opened his mouth to retort.

“And so therefore,” Tony continued, cutting him off, “we will, _happily,_ be continuing without you. But by all means, keep making a scene. Wanda  has always thought that you'd look hilarious in a cop car. Me? I think seeing you marched out in cuffs would be so much funnier. So please, feel free to prove me wrong.” He stared down his nose at the man, unruffled.

The man glared for a few moments, and then turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door.

The man looked at the receptionist.

“You get all that, Wanda?” he asked, grinning. “I was thinking he'd make some excellent gifs. Shame the glass didn’t shatter; he would’ve gone viral.”

“Every second, boss,” Wanda replied. “He's going to look great in the Christmas e-card. Oh yeah, also, Steve Rogers to see you.” She waved a hand at Steve, who was still frozen against the side of the desk.

“Mr. Rogers!” Tony Stark himself said with enthusiasm. He straightened up from the door frame and strode over to Steve, grabbing his hand and pumping it with vigor.

Steve just let his arm be shook, still in shock.

“I hear you've got quite the skills with the pen!” Stark continued, not seeming to notice Steve's lack of response. “Natasha spoke quite highly of you, and she's yet to steer me wrong…Well except that time in Prague, but I should’ve known better than to try and out drink a Russian.  Why on earth aren't you still working with her?”

“It's… a long story,” Steve managed. “It's… nice to meet you, sir.” Steve wasn’t entirely sure how to take this man, but he thought once he got past his shock he liked the rapid-fire train of thought he was showcasing.

“Please, call me Tony,” Stark said, waving off the formalities. “Wanda, hold my calls for the next hour.” He grabbed Steve by the arm, and towed him into the office. Closing the door behind him, he motioned Steve into a chair in front of a desk piled high with papers.

Collapsing into the chair behind the desk, he moved a stack of papers onto a nearby bookcase and braced himself on the desk.

“Alright Rogers,” he said, looking him dead in the eye, “Show me what you got.”

______________________________________________

Two hours later, Steve wandered out onto the street in a daze.

His hands shook slightly as he looked down at the paper clutched in his fingers.

An offer for permanent employment from _Iron and Gold Graphic Design_.

Flipping the paper over, he noticed some writing on the back.

_Change is good, Rogers,_ it said, in Stark's handwriting. _And for the love of God, get a new suit_.

Steve sat down and a nearby bench and laughed until his sides hurt.

_____________________________________________

The next week was a whirlwind.

Steve barely stopped to sleep or eat, too busy setting up his new life. He spent hours poring over listings of apartments, trying to find one with the right fit. He couldn’t believe how long it took . In he constantly dropped into _Iron and Gold_ , finishing paperwork and getting a feel for the kind of work the company produced. Tony was anxious to get him started right away, citing his need for his “fresh new eyes” on several projects.

By the time the weekend rolled around, Steve was so tired he could cry.

Watching the sunset from the roof of his new building, he did, a little. He wondered when he would stop feeling like every moment of his new life was a dream.

He crashed into his bed in his apartment and slept for almost fifteen hours, waking up around sunset the next day.

Feeling like he finally had his head on straight, he realized there was one important errand he’d forgotten.

Taking his time, Steve showered and pulled on one of his nicer new shirts from the package that had arrived on his doorstep a few days ago along with a slightly snarky “good luck” note from Natasha. He grabbed his keys and a piece of paper he’d torn from his sketchbook, to which he’d attached a small red bow.

For the sixth time, he carefully brushed his hair back in the mirror where it was starting to grow out from his crewcut. He looked down at where Renoir was placidly watching him on a chair.

“Wish me luck, buddy,” he murmured, holding out his fingers. The cat rubbed his face against Steve’s knuckles, and then flopped over onto its back.

Steve smiled, grabbed his keys, and left his apartment at a brisk walk.

He couldn’t wait to tell Bucky about everything. It wasn’t as late as his usual visiting hours, but maybe the shop would be quiet.

Maybe they could sit for a little while and just talk. Steve could tell him about his crazy few days; get to know the man. He wanted unravel the mystery behind those grey eyes.

Reaching the wrought iron gate, Steve swung it open and looked for the tell-tale glow of the shop window.

It was absent. The lamp next to the picture window was extinguished. 

And there was something odd about the window?

Ignoring the jolt of unease in his stomach, Steve strode closer, and then ground to an abrupt halt.

There was no grand display of chocolates that Steve had come to expect. In fact, a large red velvet curtain was draped across the inside of the window.

Confused, Steve turned towards to door. Reaching for the handle, his hand froze in midair when he saw the sign hanging from it.

_Closing_ , it read, in large curling script. And then in smaller letters, _final week starting Monday_. _Thank you for your business._

Steve stumbled back a step.

Closing? Bucky was… leaving?

He felt his breath catching in his throat.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the curtain in the window twitch as if someone were about to open it.

Steve panicked.

He spun around and dashed away, his footsteps echoing against the high walls of the alleyway as he retreated.

He didn’t notice the piece of paper flying out from his jacket pocket, or the slight breeze that whirled it back into the doorframe of the shop.

______________________________________________

The next week was a total haze.

He sat on his back porch holding Renoir and letting memories wash over him.

The glow of the window, the first time he stumbled down the alleyway.

The smell, sweet and spicy, that floated to him across the shop.

Bucky’s hair shining under the low lights.

The way he’d sighed when they’d kissed, a soft exhalation , just barely audible.

Eventually it would get cool enough that he’d go inside to sleep, except sleep wasn’t a refuge either.

Because then the memories would play through his dreams, and his subconscious would dredge up all the fantasies Steve was attempting to supress.

The most prominent one, that Steve absolutely refused to examine past daybreak, was Bucky  and him, just having coffee on his porch together. They were both wearing sweatpants, he was sketching, and Bucky was playing a guitar. He could smell the dark roast of the coffee and hear the notes of the song. Renoir would curl around his ankle, begging for scraps of their breakfast. It was peaceful and intimate, and it vividly played across his dreams every single, goddamned night.

He hated it; but, he hated waking up more.

Steve was, at the very least, resolute. Bucky was closing up and leaving for good. There was no point in seeing him again, and breaking his heart into more pieces.

He was never going back again.

 ________________________________________________

He’d made it to Friday before giving in.

The previous night had been the most real of all. There was a shaded, indistinct mix of sensations and images. Glimpses of warm skin sliding over sheets. The sound of cut-off, desperate gasps. Flashes of grey-blue eyes staring him down.

And over and above everything else, the scent of chocolate. 

Steve had woken with a start, sweating through his sheets and almost painfully hard. He took care of it, but the dream lingered as the wind howled outside, a summer storm approaching.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He’d called in sick, knowing he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything. He would have to get to the root cause of things, and that would mean going back to the shop. Today.

He spent all day pacing his apartment, trying to think of the words that would fix the situation. When the light of the sunset glowed suddenly broke through the clouds as the storm started to clear, he knew it was time.

That didn’t mean it was easy.

Maybe the store wouldn’t even be open. What if the last week of sales had been so bad he’d closed early? Steve wouldn’t have known. He didn’t know Bucky was even planning on closing.

He shoved a hand through his hair, disrupting his careful styling job in frustration.

But he had to at least try.

Steve pushed the gate open and started down the alleyway.

Nervously, he glanced along the wall of the alleyway. The familiar gleam of the lantern glowed cheerfully back at him.

Well. That answered one question, at least.

Reaching the door, Steve determinably ignored the sign swinging from handle, and pushed the door open wide.

He took a deep breath, stepped inside,

 and looked straight into the eyes of one Bucky Barnes.

He was sitting exactly where he’d been the first evening Steve had stumbled across him. His hair was arranged in a series of intricate braids, and the warm light of the shop glinted off small gold pieces woven throughout them.

Bucky’s face broke into a warm smile.

Steve almost stopped breathing.

“Why, Steve Rogers,” he said quietly.  “Please, come in.”

Steve managed not to stumble over the threshold, and crossed the floor to stand across from Bucky.

“Hey,” he managed, feeling breathless. “How… how are you?”

“I’m well, thank you,” Bucky replied. His eyes lit up suddenly, and he reached into his pocket, drawing out a small piece of folded paper.

“I wanted to thank you for the gift on my doorstep.”

Steve frowned, confused for a moment, before he recognized what he was looking at.

“O-oh!” he said, face flushing. “I meant to give it to you in person, but, um…”

Bucky smiled, and carefully unfolded the paper. It revealed a drawing of the picture window, the first night Steve had seen it, with all the chocolates delicately sketched in ink.

“That’s alright,” Bucky said, “I love it.” He stroked one finger down the edge of the paper, looking at it admiringly.

“I… I didn’t think I’d come back,” Steve blurted out.

Bucky glanced up at him, and Steve flushed even harder.

“I saw the sign,” he continued, more slowly. “You’re… leaving?”

Bucky sighed, and looked out across the shop, and then to the door.

“The north wind calls,” he murmured.

He glanced at Steve, and then away again.

Steve’s heart felt like it was somewhere in his stomach. He looked despondently down at the drawing. He’d put so much effort into getting the details as close as he could remember from that night that had changed everything.

“But…” Bucky murmured, hesitantly.

Steve looked up to find Bucky watching him, a strange, sad look on his face.

“That’s not all you came here for, is it?”

_Your fortune, a secret, or…_

“My heart’s desire…” Steve whispered. Bucky watched him, still with that look on his face.

That look like he’d already left.

Steve thought about the past few weeks. Thought about what his life had been like before, working long hours with high demands. Being mind-numbingly bored and constantly, achingly lonely.

Then he thought about what his life was like now. He was in a job he actually enjoyed and felt fulfilled doing. Living in one of the most amazing cities he’d ever experienced.

He thought of Tony and Natasha and even Renoir, and… he thought of Bucky.

Bucky, who’d been the catalyst for all of it.

He looked back at Bucky. A strand of dark, gently curling hair had escaped from one of his braids, and was hanging along the side of his face.

Slowly, Steve reached up and carefully tucked the strand of hair behind Bucky’s ear. Bucky’s lips parted, a quiet sigh escaping them.

“When I came here the first time, I knew nothing.” He said softly. “About myself, about what I wanted, about… who, I wanted. I certainly could not have told you what I desired most. And then I met you, and everything changed. My life has grown so much, because of you.

Steve took Bucky’s hand in his.

“I know now. My heart’s desire? That you would stay with me.”

He smiled at Bucky, hesitant. “What would that cost me?”

Bucky looked down at Steve’s hand cupped around his.

Then he carefully twined his fingers with Steve’s.

He looked up at Steve, and smiled, a truly joyful smile that lit his whole face like the sun.

“A piece of your heart,” he replied.

Steve couldn’t help the smile that split his face. He reached up, and cupped Bucky’s face in his hand.

“You can have all of it,” he said, and leaned in.

______________________________________________________

The North wind blew down the street, carrying the sign off the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's everything! My god, I did not think this was going to take so long to write, but life definitely had other plans. 
> 
> Major shout outs go first to the inimitable DowagerEmpress, who very gave me a huge dressing down about commas, cliches, and the being super obvious, not in that order. They are a superstar who made me feel both loved and chastened simultaneously, and they deserve all the kudos. 
> 
> Other shout out goes to my partner, given how many times I said things like "ok but just one more paragraph" or "does this word make sense" and "listen if I was a dude you were in love with, what would you focus on". Thanks love!
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed it nearly as much as I liked writing it, and thanks for reading! I'm going to go buy half a chocolate store.

**Author's Note:**

> See also: blatant wish fulfillment. God help me I was hungry when I wrote this.  
> Credit where credit is due as always to the inimitable Matt, my long distance partner in crime that has a particular knack for titles. 
> 
> More to come!


End file.
